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<title>New Year's Day by deathisaparty (crystalemerson)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27744199">New Year's Day</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalemerson/pseuds/deathisaparty'>deathisaparty (crystalemerson)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Palaye Royale (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Character Death, Ghosts, Suicide</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:48:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>675</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27744199</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalemerson/pseuds/deathisaparty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>How long has he actually been there, walking those streets?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>New Year's Day</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Trigger warnings:</p><p>Suicide<br/>Alcohol abuse<br/>Graphic aftermaths of violence</p><p>This is a oneshot in which Sebastian is merely a character. I wrote it for an English exam. It was meant to be gothic. Please do not read if you feel it will upset you. </p><p>If I missed any trigger warnings, please let me know.</p><p>Comments always appreciated.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sebastian was stumbling his way through the gloomy streets of Prague, feeling the bite of chilly wind on his face, a few sips of alcohol away from being blackout drunk, clutching the neck of a bottle of gin in his left hand and a small, gleaming knife in his right. The back of his mind held a hazy memory of a more responsible part of himself retrieving the knife from the gutter a while back, perhaps with the intention of disposing of it safely, but his mind was not in a responsible state anymore, and he could not bring forth the memory.</p><p>He had not even the slightest idea where the big, bulbous and wonderfully full bottle of gin had come from. In the darkness of the winter night, with locked-up houses casting shadows from all sides, he could not make out a label; he could only see a murky brownish quality to the glass. The unreadable label, however, did not faze him. He had been to a party and drunk the new year in on gin, and he fully intended to spend the first few hours of 1877 taking more shots of this lovely new bottle of the stuff. It didn't matter what it was; what brand it was; if it was expensive or cheap; if it was from a shop or a horrific homebrew. He was too drunk to notice and too thirsty to care.</p><p>Staggering down the quiet streets, whose houses bore shutters on their windows to shut out people like him, Sebastian looked around and grinned bitterly to himself. The houses here were nice. Nicer than Sebastian's one grotty room in the lodging place. These houses had beautifully carved, ornate trimmings, and had window boxes with flowers he could smell from here.</p><p>The people here clearly lived like kings. This was definitely not a poor neighbourhood, with its large, now-dark houses and elaborate woodwork. Sebastian's room had a broken window and deep grooves in the bed from the last person who lived (and probably died) there. But now, in the deep insanity of his mind, he was happy. He had always wanted to live in a place like this, with his own kitchen, and maybe running water. And if he couldn't live here, at least he could maybe die here instead.</p><p>Suddenly flooded with deep, melancholy thoughts, Sebastian raised his left hand to his mouth, pulled the cork out of the bottle with his teeth, spat it off to his side and took a deep swig. It didn't register in his mind that he might REALLY die here if he drunk too much more. He just kept going. As he drank, he inspected the knife, all memory of picking it up now gone, and wondered why he had it. It had initials inscribed on the handle, but he couldn't make out the letters in his stupor.</p><p>As the bitter, slightly floral taste of gin burned his throat, he felt himself lose his mind.</p><p>*</p><p>The next morning, Sebastian's body was found by an old lady, who had come out of her house to water her window boxes. The knife was in his hand, covered in blood. The pain he had inflicted on himself was starkly evident; deep holes in his chest and stomach showed up clearly red against his cream shirt. A contorted look of agony was frozen to his dead face, and upon seeing it, the old woman screamed.</p><p>Lying next to the body was a brown bottle of spilled gin. He never even finished the bottle.</p><p>*</p><p>As the police arrived on the scene, Sebastian was staggering down the same street he did on New Year's Day. He was holding a brown bottle of gin in one hand, and a small, initialed knife in his right. He was observing the houses as he walked, and then took the cork of the bottle in his teeth, popped it out, spat it off to one side, and took a large gulp. Everything was exactly the way it was on the night he died.</p>
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